Necessity is the Mother of Invention
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon and Illya are flying in a bush plane, pursing THRUSH, when they run into some trouble. Originally posted for the PicFic Tuesday challenge on section7mfu on both Live Journal and Dreamwidth. The prompts was a roll of duct tape. pre-saga


It was starting to get dark when Illya decided to land the single engine Piper Cub bush plane; he'd spotted a suitable place to bring it down beside a small lake and not far from it there stood what looked like hunting cabin.

He and Napoleon had been tracking a signal from a homing device planted on a similar plane, and had been in pursuit over the wilds of Alaska.

The occupants of said plane had stolen a file with plans for a device to help in the locating of gold. Considering their perceived destination, home to the world's largest gold pan, they were most likely going to make a go of it. If they succeeded, it would give THRUSH a substantial supply of wealth to fund their future schemes for a very long time.

It was simply too risky to fly at night, and they'd still be able to maintain the signal and most likely the other pilot would be landing for the evening as well. The Russian calculated they were not more than a mile or two away at the most but it was too dangerous to try to find their camp in the darkness.

Napoleon scrounged inside their stolen plane, looking for whatever supplies he could find. He discovered cans of beef stew and half a case, of all things, New York Knickerbocker beer, tools, plastic tarps and real head-scratcher, a crate of duct tape. That was it.

He grabbed a couple of cans of stew, as well as some of beers. The back of the plane did smell like beer and all the while they'd been flying, Napoleon had wondered what that familiar odor had been and now his question was answered. It was the pungent odor of stale beer emanating from some empty bottles in the case.

His clever partner had managed to land the plane not far from a fishing cabin beside a nearby lake. At least that afforded them protection from the chilly elements rather than sleeping uncomfortably in the cramped plane.

Lighting a fire wasn't an issues as there were people hunting and fishing in the area all the time, so the smoke wouldn't alert the other plane.

"I come bearing gifts," he smiled, placing their victuals on a table in front of the fireplace. Illya had gathered wood and tinder and had already a roaring fire going, warming up the small cabin nicely.

The Russian drew his throwing knife from the back of his jacket and removed the caps from the beer bottles with and easy flick of the blade, and handed one of the bottles to his partner.

"Naszdorov'ye." Illya saluted, raising his bottle and chinking it to his partner's.

"Here's mud in your eye," Napoleon responded, raising his bottle and taking a swig from it.

"I never understood that toast," Illya shook his head, "Why would one wish mud in another's eye? Can you explain this to me?"

"As I recall, it's a saying that comes from between 1916 and the1920. One theory was that it originated in the muddy trenches of WWI or in the cafes where English and American soldiers spent their leave time – perhaps better 'mud in your eye' than something more lethal."

"The other theory is that It referred to the sediment which is often found in the bottom of a glass of wine. Possibly 'dregs' as a colloquial meaning of mud. The original meaning of the toast may have been that if one drains their glass too enthusiastically, one may literally find 'mud in their eye."

Illya sat wide-eyed, "Do you realize that is the first time you have me given a plausible explanation as to the origin of one of your colloquialisms?"

Napoleon put down his bottle. "Really?"

"Really," Illya smiled, taking a careful mouthful from his beer bottle. "Now to our repast my friend...hmm, Dinty Moore beef stew. Is it any good?"

"Can't say, as I've never tried it."

The Russian rifled through a draw, actually finding a can opener, a bottle opener, as well as well as eating utensils, and several bowls. There was one pot in a cabinet and he emptied the contents of the two cans of stew into it and placed it in the fire. It heated very quickly and in no time they had a delicious smelling meal.

Once warmed he doled out the stew into their bowls and the two of them dug in, sitting on a pair of rickety chairs at a crude wooden table.

"Gotta tell you tovarisch, this isn't bad. Beef stew, beer and a roaring only thing missing is a couple of gorgeous women."

" You would think that, but I agree, we have had far worse than this" Illya spooned the last of his stew into his mouth.

It was dark by the time they'd finished, and the dishes were put aside to clean in the morning as it wasn't that urgent to wander around outside in the dark looking for the lake. The two of them laid down on the floor, wrapped in some woolen blankets they'd found and bedded down for the night.

"Not bad at all tovarisch," Napoleon sighed, resting his head, with his hands tucked behind it. "Good night."

"Da. Spokoynoy nochi Napoleon." Illya rolled over to his side, and as usual, fell asleep within minutes.

Napoleon lay awake, listening to his partner's light snoring as the fire was crackling and snapping. Outside in the distance there was the howling of a lone wolf the. Hearing it made him happy they were inside the cabin, but part of him felt drawn to the beasts loneliness...that was until another returned its call and together they created a harmony, of sorts; that sound finally lulling the American into a deep sleep.

The next morning Illya awoke before his partner, standing and, raising his arms above his head and stretching out like a cat. He headed outside to relieve himself but that urge disappeared instantly when he saw something most unexpected.

_"Chyortt poberi k chyortu!_" The Russian cursed vehemently and drew his turned, opening the cabin door, calling urgently for Napoleon to get up and come outside.

"Napoleon, wake up! We have a big problem!"

Solo woke with a start, climbing up from the floor and heading out the door in a few short steps.

"Oh crap," Solo groused, looking at the plane.

_"Chyort, medved_," Illya swore again.

"Do you think?"

"I have no doubt, look at the height of those rather large claw marks."

Napoleon drew his weapon as well as they cautiously approached the plane. Not that their Specials would do much good if the animal in question was a indeed as Illya suspected, a brown bear.

One entire side of the Piper Cub had been ripped apart. Thankfully there was no sign of the bear who did it, as the two of them examined the damage to the fuselage. There was a gaping hole and the metal skin of the plane had been peeled back like it had been nothing.

"Why would a bear have done this?"Napoleon asked.

"They are usually seeking food, but there was nothing inside but but canned goods that you found, correct? I doubt one would get any scent from that."

"Hmm," Solo's eyebrows shot up as he suddenly remembered something. "You know the back of the plane reeked of beer, I bet that's what it was after," he snorted." Well here's another a fine mess we're in, aren't we Stanley?"

"Why are you calling me Stanley?" Illya tilted his head, looking at his partner as if he'd gone mad.

"You know Laurel and Hardy, always getting themselves in fine messes?" Solo looked at his partners confused look, obviously the reference on the comedic actors. They were comedy double act of the early Classical Hollywood era of American cinema. Hmm, yeah maybe you might not know that." Napoleon "twiddled" his necktie imitating Hardy" in an effort to show his resignation. " It was just a way of wondering what we're going to do now. The plane's not flyable in this condition, so now we'll lose the trace, and have to call Mr. Waverly for a retrieval. He's not going to be very happy about this."

"That my friend is a given and there was no need to be cryptic about is with your hollywood movie reference," Illya sighed his frustration, but suddenly paused. "Wait Napoleon, I have an idea." He picked up one of the tarps and a dug a roll of duct tape out of the crate still sitting there untouched.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me? Napoleon laughed, "That'll never work."

Illya looked out the window of the plane seeing smoke still rising in the distance where he guessed their quarry was still hunkered down.

"It is worth a shot," he smiled. They gathered up the tarps, and roll upon roll of the silver duct tape, and secured the tarps around the damaged fuselage with a skeleton of tape holding them in place.

"Illya this really won't hold," Napoleon huffed.

"We need more duct tape."

They wrapped it over and over, winding it like bandaging a mummy and by the time they'd finished the whole fuselage was covered in several layers of the duct tape. They'd used nearly the entire crate of it to finish the job.

Illya stood with his hands on his hips, tilting his head and admiring the handy work with grin.

"You really think this will hold tovarisch?"

"Have no doubt; duct tape has superior holding quality and very good tensile strength. I will be flying at very low so that will help as well, as least we will not be at an altitude where the temperatures are too cold, and may affect the stickiness of the duct tape."

"Oh peachy," Napoleon muttered, "If it gets too cold the tape will peel away?

"There is a remote possibility, but the multiple layers will act as insulation, so I do not foresee a problem." He ran his hand along the tape, double checking to make sure it was in place, with no air bubbles. He was pleased with the job they'd done.

A sharp wharble from the tracker called their attention, indicating their quarry was on the move. There was nothing in the cabin to retrieve so the two agents immediately hopped into the plane, and Illya started it up; the engine kicking in easily. He let it warm up before adjusting the controls and easing the throttle forward.

Illya glanced at his partner, noting Napoleon had his fingers crossed and chuckled; he threw back one of the sayings Solo used so often... "Oh ye of little faith."

He adjusting the controls, checking the rudder and pulled back on the stick and the little plane quickly became airborne.

"Ah the miracle of duct tape," he snickered, still seeing his partner's fingers crossed. "Napoleon, relax."

"I'll relax when we've landed...safely that is, on terra firma."

Illya smiled as he banked the Piper Cub, making a leisurely course adjustment to to match the flight plan of the other plane.

It was a short jaunt, and the UNCLE agents arrived at a small airport just outside of Nome, on the southern Seward Peninsula coast and quickly surprised the unsuspecting THRUSH agents, and retrieveved the stolen file with little resistance.

Illya and Napoleon did take some ribbing for the condition of the Piper Cub from the hanger personnel and a couple of the captive THRUSH as well, calling it a toy plane.

Wanting to know if it was built by a kid and asking where the tinker toys were.

"UNCLE is really cutting back on their budget, one of the Thrushies cackled. "You sure you don't want to come work for us? At least Central gives up to date equipment that's in good shape."

"A bear did the damage during the night, and thanks to my partner's ingenuity, he made it flyable again. You do realize we could leave you out on the tundra where you'd most likely be paid a visit by one of those hungry bears?" Napoleon remarked.

"You wouldn't Solo."

"No he probably would not," Illya smiled wickedly," but I would."

.

* note, couldn't help myself, this was based on a true story.


End file.
